


stranger (in a strange land)

by HelenaKey



Series: The Unfinished Kiss [1]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: 1960s, 60's Aesthetic, Bars and Pubs, Cultural Differences, Culture Shock, F/M, Frank Sinatra - Freeform, Historical References, Insomnia, Inspired by Music, Jazz Music, Mild Racism, New York City, Obnoxious Publicity, References to TV, Socialism, Spies & Secret Agents, Telegrams
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-19
Updated: 2015-12-19
Packaged: 2018-05-07 16:31:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5463428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HelenaKey/pseuds/HelenaKey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time Illya Kuryakin set foot in American soil it was on December 18, 1963, in a cold afternoon veined by grey flashes of lightening. The world outside the airport seemed covered in a glossy curtain of mist; everywhere he could see citizens moving in a furious barrage of back and forth, looking for a place to shelter from the incoming storm.  Fearless, he stepped through the glass doors and faced the strange misty land that waited for him outside.</p>
            </blockquote>





	stranger (in a strange land)

The first time Illya Kuryakin set foot in American soil it was on December 18, 1963, in a cold afternoon veined by grey flashes of lightening. The world outside the airport seemed covered in a glossy curtain of mist; everywhere he could see citizens moving in a furious barrage of back and forth, looking for a place to shelter from the incoming storm. He had been told that America was a cold place in that time of the year, so Illya was soberly dressed in a thick dark-brown suit that protected him from the weather. He was wearing grey gloves and a hat for the cold too.

Fearless, he stepped through the glass doors of the airport and faced the strange misty land that waited for him outside. As he did so, Illya didn't felt the cold that was terrorizing the hasty citizens around him. The weather wasn't warm, but it was nothing compared to the ruthless bite of winter back in the Soviet Union. After spending such a long journey trapped in the small cavities of an American airplane, he actually found it refreshing. He walked down the street carefully, gripping the handle of his suitcase tighter whenever someone accidentally bumped into him. He carried classified information with him and he couldn't afford loosing it to the enemy. It wouldn't be the first time that a rascal of skillful hands interrupted a mission in its early stages.

There was no one waiting for him; neither a fellow agent nor a car. As he lifted a gloved thump towards the avenue and a Plymouth Taxi parked in front of him, waiting for instructions, Illya hoped that the information U.N.C.L.E had given him would be enough to move around New York City on his own. He was a suspicious man, and in case he got lost he wouldn't ask for directions; even if that meant roam the unknown streets until late at night, looking for a place to stay. Once, when he was still young, Illya had made the mistake of addressing a stranger during a job in West Germany, and after a large round of insults towards soviet socialism and a rather painful punch in the face things ended in an outlandish gun fight. Ever since then he had become reticent towards foreigners, especially when they lived in the other side of the Curtain.

The airport was in the outskirts of New York, and it took him almost forty minutes to reach the downtown of the City. Through his window he could see long rows of oak trees covered in thin blankets of snow; occasionally, he could see houses and buildings as well, all of them of a very humble appearance. The cabbie that was driving him was a small man, of thick moustache and tanned skin. Once he realized that Illya was not interested in starting a conversation he turned on the radio and the car filled with old songs of Frank Sinatra and the Everly Brothers. Illya found himself staring at him, even thought he was struggling to look elsewhere. In the Soviet Union it was normal to find immigrants from Africa and China, sometimes even from the Middle East, but never from South America. He had never seen one before.

As the outskirts began to disappear and were slowly replaced by the downtown of New York, the soviet man found himself gapping at the abnormality of the American Metropolis. The streets were full of colorful advertisements of Coca-Cola, Marlboro Cigarettes and late model cars that at first sight made Illya's eyes hurt. He massaged his temples with one hand, trying to take the mild pain away, and looked through the window again. He saw citizens walking down the street and was suddenly amazed at how much they were. He had never seen such a large group of people gathered together in one city, let alone moving with such speed and synchronicity. They looked like one composed entity; walking together down the pedestrian crossings, entering and exiting buildings at the same time. The publicity that surrounded them was big, flashy and ridiculously bright, and for a moment Illya had to wonder how someone could live peacefully in a city like this one.

He put on his sunglasses, trying to ignore the lights, and adverted his gaze from the crowded city. The cab parked right in front of the hotel; a small but cozy place, that was also framed by phosphorescent ads and neon billboards. That was the American fashion, it seemed. It wasn't an expensive hotel (Napoleon would have said that it was vulgar by the standars of the United States) but that wasn't rare when working for U.N.C.L.E, so Illya didn't complain. He stepped out of the vehicle, taking his suitcase in one hand and his brown jacket in the other one, and hurried to get inside. In the long journey from the airport to the city he got rid of his hat and gloves too; it wasn't snowing, so despite the mist and the rain puddles, he found them unnecessary.

Inside it was warmer than outside; but it was also quieter. Illya found that he liked the change. He checked into the hotel under a different name (the one U.N.C.L.E had assigned him for this mission) and silently waited for the young receptionist to bring him the keys of his room. The lounge wasn't crowded; there were only five citizens inside, leafing through the pages of old magazines or reading travel brochures. Once or twice Illya felt their eyes on him, but he was careful to not turn around and stare back at the Americans. He knew that his uncommon size called people's attention; even in the Soviet Union he would find children openly staring at him with their mouths wide open, as if they weren't looking up at a common citizen but at a giant of myth. It wasn't harmful in itself, so Illya had learned to ignore it.

Soon, the receptionist came back with his keys. He took them and started to walk away, but before he could make it to the elevator the _diebushka's_ voice calling for him made him stop. “You forgot your folder, sir.” She said, in a rather low voice, as if she didn't want the people sitting in the lounge to hear her. Illya frowned. “I didn't have any…” He started, but then caught the accomplice look in the girl's eyes. A mysterious exchange took place; a caveat with no words that left him feeling slightly nervous. He quickly understood, and came back for the folder, trying to shake off the feeling that he was being watched, but not succeeding. It seemed that Waverly hadn't been joking when he said he had people everywhere.

He only opened the folder once he was alone in the elevator, heading to the third floor with his entire luggage. Inside there was only a white sheet of paper with something written in German; a language that he understood, but usually avoided for cultural reasons. It was black ink, from a pen and not from a typewriter; the words were written in italics. _You forgot your jacket in the Istanbul hotel. Napoleon tried to steal it, but I didn't let him. Next time we see each other, you'll have it back._ There was a smiley face in the end of the text, and at the bottom of the page Illya could read the initials _G.T_.

It was an imprudent message, he knew. This mission was so important that not even Waverly was communicating with him, and yet this German girl had the gall to do it, and for such a petty thing! It should have, but it didn't anger him. It made him smile, ever so slightly, and after staring at it for a few seconds he opened the folder and put it back in. He stepped out of the elevator, and entered his room.

 

* * *

 

Inside of the hotel there was very little to do, as far as Illya could see. The room was small, just large enough to house a grown man and perhaps a child. The walls were white and very thin, and the more Illya looked at them the more he thought that a well aimed strike would be enough to break them in two. This type of design was always troublesome. It allowed people to spy on him, even without microphones. As he examined the room he made a mental note to inform Waverly about it. Perhaps, better accommodations could still be arranged.

He followed the normal procedure, and looked for any microphone that may have been plugged in the room before his arrival. The detector went negative in every corner he checked, and since he didn't found anything strange in the bathroom, the closet or under the bed, Illya decided that there was nothing to worry about. He unpacked his suitcase, leaving the most essential items inside, in case he had to make a quick exit. Once everything was settled he took a seat in the hard bed placed in the center of the room, and turned on the TV set.

In the Soviet Union there were only five _programmes_ , and not all of them were available in every region. They were mostly about news and documentaries, some exceptions being educational shows, occasional movies and series for children. Sometimes, _ryads_ were locally produced for TV, but rarely exceeded 5-10 episodes in length. Americans, however, seemed to have access to countless of channels, all differing greatly from each other.

They had shows about _cowboys_ , detectives and policemen that, violent as they were, Illya found outlandish for broadcast television. They had comedies whose jokes he couldn't understand, and strange sci-fi series that left him feeling more confused than anything else. There were terror shows, animated shows, hospital shows, _standup comedy_ shows, and many other shows that Illya didn't even knew the names of. It left him feeling overwhelmed, and after forty minutes of browsing at a non-stop from one channel to the other, he turned off the television.

He had a terrible headache and his eyeballs were hurting; he didn't knew if it was because of the plane ride, or if it was just for the bright lights of the TV set. He shifted on the bed to lie on top of it, and in the deep silence of the night he could hear the dim sound of a radio being turned on in the next room. It was transmitting news in American English, but right then Illya felt too tired to try and understand them. As he started to fall asleep, he remembered the small folder he had left inside his suitcase and the small signature at the bottom of the page, and had to wonder exactly when Gaby Teller would be joining him for this mission. It had only been two weeks since he had last seen her, and it already felt like an eternity.

 

* * *

 

In December 19 Illya went to a bar in the downtown of New York to report to his superiors. Waverly had instructed him to go there once he had arrived to the United States, to make sure he had crossed the Iron Curtain without problems. He and the informant weren't supposed to exchange words during the encounter; Illya just had to stay put in the barstool and wait for the man to catch sight of him. Once he had been spotted, he was told to walk away and quietly go back to his hotel room.

The bar was a nice place, and Illya found that it was the first thing he saw in America that he actually liked. There were no lights in the ceiling, but small lamps of rectangular shades distributed throughout the lounge. The chairs were made with polished oak wood, and they were lined with leather and red velvet. In the stage there was a redhead singer with good talent for _jazz_ music, and an old pianist wearing a tailcoat of great quality. Illya wasn't familiar with this type of music, for there was nothing alike in the Soviet Union. Napoleon had told him that it was an awful thing, only proper of _Negroes_ and savages, so he had been reticent towards the genre at the beginning. Now, he knew that this was one of many things in life in which his American friend was wrong.

As far as Illya could see, no one in the audience had anything against the entertainment or its afro-american origins. However, there were indeed some things about their attitude towards the show that the soviet man found odd. They all seemed to be educated people, and whenever a song ended they clapped and whistled at the band, especially at the redhead singer. Sometimes, when the performance was particularly good, they would even stand from their seats and throw money at them. A roguish in the audience even threw a rose at the feet of the singer, making her blush like a beet in the middle of the stage. Besides that, however, the Americans didn't do anything else.

No one sang along with the performers, and no one danced at the rhythm of their songs either. They just clapped, smiled and then went back to their quiet chatter, paying no mind to the other clients besides those they were sitting with. As Illya waited for Waverly's informant to appear, no fights aroused in the bar, no dancing took place, and not even a cry laced with drunkenness crossed the room, making the good citizens quiver with laughter. Everything seemed cold and distant; the farthest thing to a party that Illya had ever seen.

He had to wonder why the Americans were behaving like this, when he had always heard that they usually were lively people. He had no time to answer this question, thought. Right in the other side of the room he saw the informant Waverly had described him before boarding the plane, and as their gazes locked he nodded slightly at Illya, and then took a seat in an empty table before the stage. That was his clue to leave, so he quickly grabbed his hat and jacket, finished his drink in one gulp, and headed outside the bar and into the streets.

 

* * *

 

That night Illya didn't slept. He was still tired for the plane ride (it had been a long and very boring journey that took him almost three days, mostly because of stopovers and time differences) and a whole evening spent in a bar from the downtown of New York, so full of people, music and obnoxious neon advertisements hadn't made him feel any better. Still, no matter how tired he felt, the young agent wouldn't fall asleep.

At this hour, back in the Soviet Union, he was usually training in the backyard or jogging outside. After that, he would take a generous but very quick breakfast and head to the First Chief Directorate base, where he would await for instructions from his superiors. Illya's body, apparently, hadn't got used to the local time, and now was tickling with exhaustion and unspent energy. The five hours of difference between Buenos Aires and Moscow had already been difficult for him, but the eight hours that now he had to face in New York were simply unbearable.

At some point during the night, when the clock over his bedside table was already marking 4:20 p.m, a sudden noise pulled Illya out of his thoughts, making him rise his head from the hard mattress of the bed. He caught sight of the small desk where he had placed most of his belongings, including the small _wireless photoradiogram_ that Napoleon had gifted him some weeks ago, before their arrival to Istanbul. He had said that its purpose was to receive and send messages over long distances without using _Morse Code;_ it was not for sale in the markets, so the American thought it would be a good way to keep in contact without jeopardizing their missions.

So far, Illya had never seen it working, and when the machine's lightbulbs suddenly started to shine in the darkness of the room and a low nightmarish sound started to come out of it, the soviet man got up from the bed with his heart pounding so fast he thought it would come out of his chest.

He approached the machine in hopes of turning off the awful sound, and once he was close enough he realized that a white sheet of paper was slowly coming out of it. After a wait of about five minutes he pulled it out to read its contents. There was no stamp, no signature and no date on the document, and there was no mailing address either. There was only a centered paragraph written on black ink that was so vague it would have left anyone else feeling confused. Illya, however, could understand it easily.

He folded the paper and put it in the pocket of his pants, knowing that leaving it behind could prove to be dangerous, and quickly took hold of his keys and jacket. He left the hotel room wondering where he could find a public phone and with Gaby Teller's memory lazily tickling in the back of his head. There was no time to think about that, thought. He had to report to Waverly on the arrival of his teammates. Otherwise, the arrangements for the mission would be delayed once again; and if there was one thing that Illya hated more than insomnia was to stand idle while there was still work at hand.

 _“As a bird that wandereth from her nest,_ _so is a man that wandereth from his place.”_

King James Bible.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by Fire Walk With Me, Angelo Badalamenti.


End file.
